If a mother screams in the forest....

and no one hears her, is this any different than me screaming in a house where everyone seems to be listening? 

A forest sounds really nice right now.

Anyway, yesterday our air freight arrived. We had our new maid over to play with the kids while we unpacked and the kids rejoiced at the sight of all their toys.

"Yay! No more sticks and rocks!" They shouted.  

So, I decided to give the kids (and my delusional self) a mental health day. Sam stayed home from school. I stayed home from four hours of driving to and from school with two screaming toddlers in the back seat so that a good day of play could be had by all. 

Peter, Sam and Clementine dragged their sleeping bags into two giant boxes, that I always rescue from the dumpster when our stuff arrives, and pretended to watch TV. They stayed in their pajamas until 10:00 and I made homemade pancakes, took a long shower and straightened my hair for only the second time since we arrived to my hairs personal hell India. So the morning was off to a good start. 

Alas a mental heath day with Peter is like a mental health day at the psych ward.

If I live to see Peter turn 18 it will be a celebration for us both. Maybe we'll be having it in the psych ward.

There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't make me want to laugh and scream and cry and laugh and bang my head on the wall all at the same time.

I told him to pick up his pajamas from the floor today four times. I asked him to put them in the dirty clothes and he vowed that he did it each time: 

"Yes Mommy! All done!"

"Are you sure Peter? In the laundry room?" 

"Yes Mommy! I love you Mommy!"

"You picked them up off the floor and put them into the laundry box*?"

"Yes Mommy!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! I did it! Juice please!"

"Because if you didn't you will be in trouble. No cookies, no TV, no good?"

"It's done Mommy!"

We had this conversation four times. FOUR.

The first time: He didn't do it and they remained on the living room floor.

The second time: I found them under the stairs in our entry way. 

The third time: I found them on the bathroom floor. 

The fourth time: I found them under the guest bed.

Any of these places is farther to travel in our palatial home than it would have been to put the pajamas into our dirty clothes box. 

The fact that he took the time to move the pajamas to a secret location each time, blatantly disregarding my request and promising whole heartedly with that angel-Peter face that he had done it, is the story of Peters childhood. 

The first and second time I was mad, the third time I just threw my hands up in the air like I just didn't care. I cared. The fourth time, they had all just laid down for naps (he was not napping, never did)  I came back downstairs and spotted something under the guest bed. I don't mess around with my eyes playing tricks on me in a new country and certainly not after our furry visitor on Night One, so I did a quick double-take to see that, yes, those were still Peter's pajamas in a new and thoughtful location.

Enter head banging (not in a "I am so jiving to this music" kind of way, either) and a hands in the air and an uncontrollable laugh welling up from my throat right along with the fury because who does that? Who takes the time to go out of their way to relocate something to four different locations knowing that with each new discovery I will burst a blood vessel and likely take away his toys and return the rock and stick? 

Peter does that. 

Bounding tester o' boundaries. 

Better luck next time with the mental health day.

*Yes it is a box, we don't have our hamper yet. We're keeping it creative.